Writer's colony confidential | page 1, 2, 3
Day 2
I sit bolt upright at 6 a.m. I dash over to Colony Hall and eat three eggs, two bowls of cereal, a large stack of pancakes, six cups of coffee. Where is everyone, I wonder? I race to my studio and write for five hours -- effortlessly, beautifully: The best prose I've ever written, I decide. At exactly 12:30 a picnic basket materializes outside my door: a thermos of soup, a chicken salad sandwich, a bag of raw vegetables, two cookies. I feed again in a frenzy, then write for another four hours. My head feels like a helium balloon as I saunter back to Colony Hall.
Twelve pages in one day: At this rate I'll finish a draft of my novel long before I leave. At dinner, the veteran colonists are quiet, staring into space as they eat like cows. "How did it go?" one asks me. "Great. Amazing," I say, jabbering like a speed freak about the marvels of colony life. Everyone else appears suddenly in a hurry to finish their dessert. I wonder why I seem to be having difficulty making friends?
Day 5
Several new colonists have arrived. Lewis Hyde, a distinguished and avuncular fellow who recently received a "Genius Award" from the MacArthur Foundation, is here writing a book on butterfly hunting. Collette Inez, a poet, seems impossibly wise and gracious. Christopher Davis, another poet, rolls up in his pickup truck, genial and level-headed. None of these people shows the least bit of interest in sleeping with each other, or with me. Hmmm.
Another fine day of work; the chicken salad, again, is excellent. I feel a slight disquiet, an unease as I wrap up for the day. I wonder if it's possible to pull a brain muscle? After dinner, four of us drive all the way to Keene to see "The Phantom Menace." It's my first exposure to pop culture since I arrived, and it feels truly illicit, more forbidden than drugs. We haggle for a minute over who gets the aisle seat, then decide to sit separately so we all do. I eat Sour Patch Kids until I'm queasy, and get hopped up on Diet Coke. The movie itself is terrible, but I don't mind.
Day 8
In what feels like a radical act of true subversion, I lead a group of 11 colonists into Peterborough to see "The Matrix." Everyone scrambles for an aisle seat. I enjoy it thoroughly, despite Lewis Thomas' ceaseless sniggering. Afterwards, we head to Harlow's Pub and stay until they chase us out -- at 11:30. Before bed I have a tiny (OK, a midsized) glass of whiskey.
Day 9
Ouch. Did somebody hit me in the head with a wrecking ball? I drag my unwashed, overslept body over to the studio, where I see that it is indeed possible to pull a brain muscle -- that the brain in fact is very much like another organ one pulls in solitude, which explains the, uh, lackluster quality of the pages I've just reread. "Dear Lord," I moan. "Who wrote this donkey vomit?" "You did, sahib," remarks my faithful retainer. Yes, I've found myself acting out both halves of this dialogue in the solitude of my little studio, which for the first time feels like real isolation. Uh oh.
I play computer solitaire all morning, waiting for the reassuring clomp of Blake's boots on my porch to signal the arrival of my lunch basket. It's on time -- no, two minutes early -- at 12:28. In it, two pieces of wheat bread hide a terrible secret -- a sickening, glutinous sweet pickle, lurking between two greasy pieces of cheese. Ugh. I crawl back into bed and take a long nap.
Day 11
Having sworn off Maker's Mark and pop culture, I feel much better, and am working steadily again. All is well, until I make an alarming discovery while browsing the tombstones in my studio: In 1971, Yoko Ono was here. Yoko Ono? I recall a cruel babysitter who once terrorized me by playing "Don't Worry Kyoko, Mummy's Only Looking for Her Hand in the Snow." All afternoon I'm distracted, hearing imaginary banshee shrieks and a frantic banging on the out-of-tune piano. What on earth was she doing here, I wonder? At dinner I bring this up. "Yoko Ono?" Christopher Davis says enthusiastically. "That's so cool! I really love her music."
Day 15
Another Sunday, which I have come to recognize as the Day of the Dread Cheese Sandwich -- "DDCS." In a moment of weakness, I break out a copy of Entertainment Weekly and gorge myself on reviews of "Austin Powers" and "Hannibal." I try to drum up some enthusiasm for a repeat outing to see "The Matrix," still playing at Peterborough's only movie theater. No takers.
At dinner, I observe that Rebecca, a painter, and Giles, a composer, are sitting together again. Clearly they're having an affair. Later, someone mentions that Rebecca is a lesbian, and I overhear Giles on the phone with his boyfriend. I wonder again how it is that none of these people seem to be sleeping together.
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